


Wallflower, blooming

by Speckleflower



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ballet, Betaed, Dancing, Dancing Lessons, Dancing in nature, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Freedom, Friendship/Love, Gen, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spring, summary is just a quote from the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:15:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29902344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speckleflower/pseuds/Speckleflower
Summary: "You just don't believe in yourself—that's your problem! Scars can heal, you know?"“But they never fade,” he whispers.“That’s no reason to hold you back. I didn’t say forget, just move on.”“I can’t. I- I can’t.” He trembles.“Why?” she challenges, voice rising. “Have you forgotten how to dance?!”“No,” the reply comes instantly, accompanied by a furrow of eyebrows and a glint in the eye. “Never.”“Do you miss it?” she confronts.“With all my heart.” The whisper comes back.“Then you can do this.” she says firmly, taking his hand in hers.
Relationships: Original Character & Original Character, Original Female Character & Original Male Character





	Wallflower, blooming

**Author's Note:**

> Written purely because I miss dancing qwq

_Status: Devoid._

Cats, bag, door. He’s done it all before, a thousand times.

The walk to work is short, but it still renders Revan out of breath on arrival to the studio. He hangs his duffel onto the wonky peg and changes into his dancing shoes. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor as his students file in, sparks in their eyes at being here once more. He doesn’t doubt that dance class is the highlight of their week; and that isn’t a self-compliment—he knows how dull the local school is.

These children are the apple of his eye; he loves them like his own and treasures every moment with them. Revan is one of the best teachers at the academy, and he knows he is liked by all of his students. Yet he feels he isn’t doing enough for them. He has a tendency to adopt a rude manner and short voice, never sounding content with what the students do. He does not dance with them or for them; his verbal instructions alone _are_ sufficient, coupled with vague movements—showing how delicately the arm should be placed, the angle of the leg. But he can see it in their eyes that they long to dance with purpose, behind someone experienced, for praise, for appreciation.

Instead of dancing to a wall and a stationary man who cannot give them what they yearn for.

They love the dance itself, but to dance with true happiness, with someone who’s learnt it all before and is willing to do it all again just to experience it with the next generation, to truly _dance_ with freedom and expression is what they all want.

But he just _can’t_. Not after what happened seven years ago.

Never again will he feel the rush of adrenalin that comes with leaping across the floor, lighter than the air rushing through splayed fingers. All he can do is pass on his knowledge to the rising.

So he pushes them harder.

He drills, he criticises, he points out. But they know he cares in the grace of his body as he coaxes fingers into the right position, corrects the form of an arabesque, turns out arms, steadies the short-sighted boy as he stumbles. Although he is harsh, he _can_ praise, and they know how he shows it. A raised eyebrow, a gleam in the eye is all it takes for a child to explode into sunbeams of smiles. Receiving a grin signifies somewhat short of a medal, and those who elicit one are half-worshipped for their talent.

Some would say he just doesn’t show much emotion; a blank slate. But he does, in his own way.

The session is productive, and although all the students are moaning by the end, dragging their feet and bags behind them, he can tell that it’s in light-hearted spirits, and he cracks a smile at their antics. Behind their backs, of course.

_Status: Moderate_

\------------------

On the walk home, Revan takes a detour through the park. Meaning to gather ideas for a new choreography, he's sure the sway of the freshly blossomed trees sending flurries of white and pink to a blanketed ground will capture his imagination.

What’s more, he finds solace in the soft swishing of branches, the peaceful chirping of the birds nesting. As he walks he pictures a dancer in _3rd_ _position_ , swooping down with the arms into a _chassé_ —slide—and up again into an _arabesque_ , leg extended behind. A bird tentatively peeping out of its home of leaf and twig. A _tour jeté_ , the radiant sun rising. Leaning back into the safety of a _fondu tendu_ , then into an _attitude_ , arms delicately flowering.

Lily petals rustle in the wind. The roundabout in the far right side of the park hums gently with moderate traffic. As a tribute to this he gives the dancer a transition from a one-legged _relevé_ to a series of slow, meandering _pirouettes_.

All is as it should be.

However, he isn’t afraid to see change. In something as trivial as nature, anyway. A buzzard swoops down with a sharp _hiss_ , no doubt to steal away a chick from its nest, and his ear twitches. A sharp transition from the loping lullaby here, perhaps. Switch it up with a confident _pas de chat_ , or a triad of _grand jetés_.

Revan itches to see it being danced—this creation he’s been forming in his head. He can see the moves laid out clearly in his head, a mental landscape where he twists and leaps, turns and dips. But he will never do it in real life.

Never again.

Besides, this dance isn’t meant for him. Coincidentally, the model in his head morphs into a definite feminine figure. Confident and joyful, she leaps around, transforming his dance into a lively spin, yet keeping the melancholy moments. He sees it in the gentle turn of her head, the reaching of her hand as if yearning for something new, the way she lets go completely when performing the jumps as if she has nothing to lose.

Like there are no limits.

The dancer in his head seems to develop a mind of her own. Suddenly she throws out a hand, chest heaving, mouth turned into a playful grin. Waiting. And a man comes out to join her.

All along he’s been developing a duet in his head, and he didn’t even realise.

The pair begin to dance together, and their movements are so in tandem, so in tune with each other that he begins to wonder whether they are of the same mind.

But then he remembers that life isn’t perfect: they _are_ of the same mind, because they only exist in his head.

The man turns, and Revan realises that he has no features—is faceless. Who is it? And who is the mysterious woman who dances in his head?

_Status: Perplexed_

\------------------

Revan continues to walk. He has places to be, anyway. The thought curls his lips into a thin smile—his life is empty apart from his teaching, and his cats. All he can go is home. Anyone else would say a café, the mall, the leisure centre—anywhere outside, but he shudders at the idea of interacting with other people.

Blossom floats down gently on either side of the path: a curtain of rosy pinks and pearly whites signalling the trees’ bearing of fruit. Sun beams emerge through the thin layer of puffy clouds, spotlighting jade leaves and turning them golden.

A movement in the corner of his vision catches his eye, and he turns his head a little in order to locate it.

It’s a woman around his age, dancing. Although the expression of delight on her face makes her look years younger than his thirty-two. She wears black yoga pants cinched at the ankles to allow for movement, and a white tank top. Her blonde hair flutters in the gentle breeze that caresses her, seeming to favour her movements. She dances with her eyes closed, without a care in the world. Yet her movements are perfect.

However, after a few seconds of watching her, he realises this is _not_ the case. She does slip up—even if it’s due to the grass she’s dancing on tangling in her path, but she _carries on_. Some students would just give up, wail, stamp their feet when they made a mistake. This woman accepts it, though. She smiles, and as far as Revan can see, she's clearly performing it for herself rather than anyone else.

Revan realises that he knows the movement she’s performing. It’s a _pas de deux_ —a duet. Although she seems to be managing perfectly by herself, adjusting the lifts for enthusiastic leaps. But his sharp eye picks out that her arms seem to subtly falter every time they should be around someone else, and they aren’t. From this he deduces that she must be a seasoned dancer, to be this aligned to the steps. On second thought, he does believe he has seen her around the studio. Maybe she’s one of the older students, or just someone who attends regularly, purely because of the thrill of dance and to keep up.

She appears so in tune with herself, and he’s captivated by the song she sings with her countenance.

It occurs to Revan that her style of dance is truly apparent: she’s like the rising sun, like a new sapling stretching for the light. She’s bright, shining, the centre of attention, yet modest. He likes to think he’s the opposite. Dark and shadowy, though albeit expressive.

Then it comes to him. _It’s her_. She’s the one who is supposed to complete this dance. He can see it as clear as day. But will he tell her? No. When does he ever vocalise his inner thoughts, except for the darkness of his headspace?

The girl suddenly relaxes and fixes a stare on him. He freezes.

“You! You’re Revan!” She exclaims in a bubbly, medium-pitched voice, and he instinctively recoils.

“I’m Aurore, by the way.” She isn’t fazed by his reaction.

He blinks. “I _was_ Revan,” his monotonous voice replies, betraying nothing. Sullen. And… nice to meet you.”

“But… you’re great! I’ve seen you; you teach at Crowne Hall studio. Though you were a dancer before; you performed!”

He can practically feel the enthusiasm radiating off her, and despite stereotypes, it is _not_ contagious. He says it in a bored-sounding voice, “Indeed. You _do_ look familiar.” And she does; he recognises the shade of her auburn hair that he’s glimpsed flick round corners; she sports the same smile he's seen across halls—never directed at him, of course. And now she tilts her head. “I need to go meet a friend; we can talk later?" Then before Revan can protest she whips out a charcoal pencil from _nowhere_ , and his eyebrows raise: a number, presumably her phone number, is now scrawled across his forearm, ending just where his black sleeves are rolled up. He deadpans, but she isn’t dampened, even a little. Her hand, iced by the morning breeze, skims over his, forcing him to shiver.

“I thought your hands would be warm,” he murmurs the thought aloud unintentionally. He doesn’t mention what got him to that speculation.

But his lips half-form the confession that he’s been imagining her hands in his.

Not hers specifically, he corrects himself—he may seem like an unbreakable wall from the outside, but in fact he longs for physical contact. He can't remember the last time someone has looked at him without judgement in their eyes, without disdain rolling from the tongue.

He can't remember the last time that someone _hugged_ him.

Noticing that he's been silent for more than a few seconds, he quickly follows with, “You’re an outspoken person; you seem the type.”

“Warm hands sounds nice," she says almost wistfully. "I have Raynaud’s. It means I lose circulation when it’s cold. I don’t _feel_ that cold, but…” She shrugs, and laughs. She laughs, like she’s blind to the fears of the world, like she has no cares, like nothing is ever wrong.

“I’m supposed to wear gloves, like _all_ the time in cold weather.” This is punctuated with an eye roll. “But… whatever! I like to feel the air on my fingertips, feel it rushing past. I’d sacrifice my circulation for that any day. Anyway, text me?”

And then she’s gone, and so is Revan’s will to live.

_Status: Emphatic_

\------------------

Revan enters the number on his forearm into his phone. He wouldn’t normally text anyone—he has no need for socialising. But for some reason, he feels compelled to; there’s something about this girl…

Hesitation grips him for only a second before he presses enter.

**Revan:** _You dance well._

The reply comes quickly.

**Aurore:** _You dance too_

**Revan:** _How do you know I can dance_

 **Aurore:** _I can always pick out a dancer, even if I haven’t seen them dance. And besides, you’re a dance teacher. I’ve seen you teaching_

 **Revan:** _I don’t dance. Not anymore._

 **Aurore:** _Huh_

 **Revan:** _I teach it. That’s it._

 **Aurore:** _Hmm_

Sweat beads on his fingers as the three dots appear, indicating that she’s typing.

 **Aurore:** _Meet me at ur studio tmrw 5pm?_

His breath hitches, a thumb over the home button on his phone. Aurore’s still typing.

 **Aurore:** _See you there :)_

His thumb connects with the home button, closing the messaging app. But not before he’s seen the message flash onto the screen. And he doesn’t know whether he closed it on purpose or different.

_Status: Apprehensive_

\------------------

Revan stands outside Crowne Hall Studio. Why is it so hard for him to enter? He comes here every single day.

Every.

Day.

Without fail. But his feet are rooted to the ground, hands clenching and unclenching.

He tells the tumultuous thoughts pummelling the side of his skull to leave him alone, and steps inside.

Upon entering the studio, he sees it’s empty. Mirrors that he’s known for just short of two decades gleam at him, and he catches sight of his expression. Normally he avoids looking in these mirrors, because he knows he’ll be met with the same dishevelled shoulder-length black hair, the same tired dark eyes, the same sallow sun-parched skin. Today doesn’t surprise him. But there’s a slight addition.

Today, he sees his expression, and it’s _scared_. He’s scared, because he came, scared because _she’ll_ be there, scared because he won’t be living up to anything he knows he’s expected to.

Aurore’s not there yet. Maybe she has a habit of being unpunctual. But who is he to judge habits?

Revan stands, has been standing in the same position for upwards of five minutes. His right foot twitches. The meaning of this is apparent, and he breathes deeply as a shiver runs through him.

After all these years, why did it take so long for him to want to dance again? To feel the energy flowing like blue fire through his veins? But he knows he’s lying to himself. He’s never really stopped wanting to dance. Suppression has done him bad, and it shows. So he does what he once knew best, opening himself up to the euphoria.

The radio squeaks as he presses the play button, but after a rattle, it emits clear, rich piano. Revan returns to the centre of the room and slips on his dance shoes.

The dance Aurore was dancing in the park is still fresh in his memory. His ability to remember _is_ exceptional, after all. He begins to mumble the steps around the room, and his feet comply, the white practice slippers he recently broke in responding well. It’s more of a stumble than a dance, although he keeps with the rhythm. His eyes close, because he can see the steps mapped out clearly in his mind, transferring it over to decade-old muscle memory. Plus, he knows every millimetre of the studio—he practically lived here in his youth.

A chill runs through his body and his arms shudder. This is a paired dance, and his hands twitch as they are supposed to be aligned with someone else’s. But he can never dance with someone else. Never again.

The familiar lilting sequences from earlier form in his mind moments before he executes them. With its highs and lows in both mood and technicality, his concentration wavers at times, as with mindless sways he can allow his mind to wander.

Revan launches himself up, and his eyes snap open as his right leg fails him, bringing an all too familiar sinking sensation to his chest. He hisses as he comes down to the floor, landing painfully on his butt. Quickly, he scrambles to his knees, but remains there with his head hung, hands fisting on faded black joggers.

“That’s _it_.” He tells himself, trembling. “I can’t dance. Not anymore.”

And that’s when he sees Aurore standing next to him, an arm held out.

\------------------

Revan allows her to pull him to his feet, although he doesn't show any enthusiasm, nor does he thank her. “Come on, loosen up!” Aurore says brightly. “Don’t worry about getting the steps right, just _feel_ it. Go where the dance wants to take you.”

Of course, he knows all this. Many a time he’s amended a jump because it just didn’t lend to his style; lifted a partner higher than usual because he knew it would work, and they could do it; dragged the timing out subtly to adjust to the mood. Little things like that. And improvisation is no stranger to him, having been thrown from a young age onto a stage with nothing but piano and the skeleton of a guideline.

No, it’s the nerves that get him.

Not before. Never before.

But now.

He can’t do it.

“Come on, you won’t let me dance this duet by myself?” Aurore teases. _Honestly, this girl_ , he sighs internally. With reluctance, he turns out his feet and raises his neck. No matter how down he feels, he will attempt to do it right.

It’s awkward at first, with misplaced shuffles of feet and badly timed crossings. But then something sparks inside him and he sees the pattern of the path he will be taken on, sees how it interlaces with hers. And he looks up into her eyes at the revelation that he’s getting it. He sees her look of encouragement, the carefree smile that graces her face, and it spurs him to continue..

It's that moment that Revan remembers the lift that comes towards the middle of this dance. One of the more challenging ones. He isn’t the one jumping—that’s what Aurore will do, however he will have to time the catch perfectly, as well as complete a complex turn underneath. He knows the theory perfectly, but he very much doubts he will be able to execute it.

“Wait, I can’t do this part-” he protests hurriedly. But she’s already going. “You can do it!” She says breathlessly as she uses her momentum to leap high into the air, and he panics as he spins underneath. But something inside him clicks as he furiously tells himself that he _will not_ allow her to fall, and suddenly he can see in high focus, can see the arch of her back as she flies above him. And he tenses his muscles, sees the peak of the arc, sees her come down. Her eyes are closed in confidence that he will do his part; her loose hair flicks up against the gravity bringing her down-

He breathes out. The key is in letting go. Allowing yourself to soar.

\------------------

He catches her.

And suddenly they’re dancing in sync, like two lost stars orbiting each other, found in the dark abyss of space. The music picks up and with it they _fly_. The blood in his ears is rushing and he loses himself in the dance and the _thrill_ of it. Aurore pivots into a firebird jump, and she’s _thriving_ , and for the first time in years, Revan feels truly _awake_. Like he’s been asleep for years, like he needed a wake-up call to come back to Earth, to his senses.

And this is it.

They both spring into a _grand jeté_ , soaring, and he’s _alive_. _Alive. Alive._ A tear sparks in his eye as his breath catches in his throat and he coughs it out with a soulful smile. It’s almost too much, but he rests in a sequence of adagio, and then he’s back.

_Status: relieved_

Aurore breathes in _2_ _nd_ position as the piano dies down temporarily. But she doesn’t wait for long.

With a laugh of joy, she effortlessly executes a _tour jeté_ ; he does a _glissade_ , and in front she reaches for the stars on tiptoes, fingers curled elegantly. The music flutters down—a delicate patter of piano tinkling from high to rumbling low arpeggios. She ends it with a _révérence_ , head bowed, while behind he breathes heavily in an _arabesque_ , right arm stretching out in front. And then they’re both falling back to a close _relevé_ , arms cradling the air above them.

Revan is hyper aware of her side pressed up against him; the pulse in her wrist beats against his, their lingering fingers entwining, the warmth of her head nestled in the crook of his neck. He feels more than sees her smile.

The faceless man was him. The woman was Aurore. This was meant to be.

Then the music ends, and they’re in each other’s arms and Revan is sobbing. Sobbing for reasons unknown to him. There are so many emotions all bundled up inside him, and they’ve rendered him helpless.

Aurore holds him steadily through all of it, rubbing circles into his shaking back.

He’s _danced_. He’s done it.

But the time it took him to see that he was holding himself back slams into him like a slap to the face.

No. All that matters is that he has danced once more, and he will never stop. And suddenly it all makes sense and he’s smiling into her shoulder as his hands curl into her hair. He’s _smiling_.

_Status: Joy_

\------------------

Five minutes later, the pair sit down in silence at the edge of a studio. Revan sits scrunched up with his legs pulled to his chest, black hair spilling onto his hunched shoulders, while Aurore crosses her legs beside him.

\-----------------

_Revan’s mind runs with pictures from his past, a graphic that skips and fragments into confusing shards that whirl around almost too quickly to comprehend._

_The last time he danced across the floor, effortlessly. Eyes narrowed in concentration, carefully watching a single spot on the wall to keep balance. Catching her encouraging grin as he turned._

Muted greys swim in front of him, a wash of dulled colours.

_Solace. No noise apart from the mild humming of his thoughts and the soft thuds he makes with his jumps._

_Falter? No—strong. He tenses his muscles, and lets go._

The image cuts.

_Methodically winding the ribbon of his slippers around his ankle, a nine-years-younger Revan glances at his sister. "Ready?" she asks._

_"Elodie." He ruffles her hair and stands up. "I was born ready!"_

A blinding pain rips through Revan's being. He's aware of a presence beside him, anxious, but it's all so far away, so far… 

_Elodie watches, curious. Longing? As he goes through his exercises, every so often he adds a comedic quip aimed at her. A wink. Finger-guns flashing in a turn. A silver grin. He's making this dance his own, albeit for her, but to him it feels like he's editing song lyrics to make them more unique._

_Laugh._

_Smile._

Her _laugh._

Revan’s hands cup his face as brightness flashes before his eyes. Too bright, he notes, but he can't do anything.

 _Her_ smile _. Blooms of colour, dancing across her skin, lit up with admiration for him._

Nails dig into his palms. Are they his? They don’t feel like they belong to him. But it hurts, it _hurts_.

_Her pain._

He hears the screech of tires, hears the scream as it rips through his being.

Hears the prolonged beep that cuts out abruptly.

_His suffering._

He crawls further into his headspace. Tries to curl up against the wall, but it is lined with spikes. His diminishing vision swarms with blurry shapes, swirls of colour elapsing and disappearing.

“Sta- status…” Revan mumbles, head in hands, rocking fervently back and forth. His eyes flit from crack to crack in the dusty corner of the mulled wooden floor.

Head empty.

Because how can he define what is happening right now?

The lack of adjectives that are normally readily available to him is disorienting, and it’s all he can do to not keel over.

“Status?” Aurore’s voice comes hazily from somewhere nearby, in a pure, innocent question of curiosity, and he grips it like an anchor.

“Y- yes.” He shakes. She waits patiently as he struggles to find the words, then opens his mouth. “Something happened to me. Seven years ago. I- I developed a coping mechanism to monitor my emotional state. Every so often, I state my status to myself. For example, status: proud, status: aggravated. It calms me down, and helps me get through things.”

Revan has never given this information to anyone before.

There's a moment of quiet in which he can practically hear Aurore processing this.

Then, “What’s your status now?” She asks. There’s no condescending tone at all, and Revan notices, internally flushing with appreciation.

He freezes, then grimaces. “I don’t know.”

_The screech of tyres still rings in his ears._

“Should we talk about something? It would help to clear your mind, maybe?”

He shrugs non-committally.

She cocks her head. “Do you want to tell me what happened? Why you became so detached from your passion?”

Why he wouldn’t dance for _seven years_.

Revan doesn’t move. Then, he slowly brings his legs down so they’re straight out in front and he sits leaning against the wall. He tilts his head back with his eyes closed, mouth pulling into a small frown. Aurore waits patiently. Sure enough, Revan opens his eyes and meets her gaze sorrowfully.

“I guess I’d better start from the beginning.” He sighs. “From my childhood.” Her brows knit together in bewilderment, but she allows him to continue. “My little sister, Elodie—" he almost chokes on her name— "She loved to dance. Loved it _so_ much. Was talented at it too—she would have gone on to do big things. But then, we were involved in a car accident. She got it worse; her legs were paralysed from the waist-down. She could no longer dance—it was physically impossible. I’d have given anything for our positions to be swapped; for me to have been on that side of the car instead of her. I’d have taken the crash time and time again so she’d remain unharmed. But that’s not how it works. I decided then that I’d- I’d learn to dance. For her. So I could achieve what she wasn’t able to. She spurred me on—she wasn’t jealous at all. My little sister was the purest, most innocent person I know.

“So I learned to dance. I went to classes, I practised at home in front of the mirror, ran through movements under isolated trees in the park. At first, I didn’t know what I was doing, but then I got to feel for it. I _lived_ dancing, truly. It was my entire life, as well as my sister. Those two things were what kept me going. I performed dance, I choreographed it, I became well known. All because of my sister and her dream that I- that I stole.”

“You didn’t steal it.” Aurore says slowly. “Not by a long shot. It was clearly what your sister wanted, and you couldn’t have stopped the accident.”

“If you say so.” He breathes, licking his dry lips—unused to talking for this long. “She was so proud of me. I’d come home, and she’d grin, and ask how my day went. Sometimes she’d even come to the studio and sit in her wheelchair at the back, watching classes and rehearsals going on. But I could always tell what she longed for the most was to be up there with me. She’d come to every concert and recital, no matter how small or unimportant. She’d be supporting me every moment.

“However… complications led to complications, and her legs had to be amputated. And that led to infection.”

Revan’s voice turns gravelly.

“I lost her seven years ago.”

A shocked gasp escapes Aurore’s throat, and her hands cover her mouth in shock. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

“I- I spiralled.” Revan's voice cracks. “Out of control, down and down.” A hand lands on his shoulder, and it’s Aurore, keeping him steady. “I didn’t look after myself. I wouldn’t go to the studio. I cut off all ties and connections. I was careless. And I ended up injuring my leg. Turns out there was still trauma from the crash that day, something I hadn’t known about, that would come back to taunt later. There were some days that I couldn’t get out of bed, the pain was too bad. I didn’t have the will to, anyway…” he trails off.

“How did you come to teach at the studio?” Aurore prompts gently.

“I’m getting to that,” he replies. “My life was nothing at this point. I had no meaning, nothing to live for. I was so depressed after my sister’s death that I had stopped caring for anything. An old friend noticed—he suggested I come to teach at the studio. They needed the expertise, anyway, and I definitely had it in me. It would take my mind off the pain I was wallowing in sitting at home, and I would get out and meet people. Share my passion. Because it still _was_ my passion—that’s why I loved teaching and was welcomed as a teacher, despite never doing any practical work, only instructing by mouth. It wasn’t that my injury hindered me—the physical harm was long healed. I just couldn’t _face_ dancing. It was impossible. But no one sees that. I go in, I teach, I correct harshly, I don’t even _smile_. They don’t know their worth, because I’m not telling them how much they mean. I’m emotionless. I’m like a robot, barely _living_ , just _functioning_ , here to fulfil my employment—”

“I don’t think you’re emotionless.” Aurore interrupts softly.

This takes Revan by surprise. He opens his mouth to speak, but pauses. “You... don’t?”

“No, and you know it too.” He doesn’t respond, so she continues, “You’re passionate, and you care for your students so much. I can see it, you know? You sound stern and harsh but it’s because you care for them, and you know they need the criticism, and they can take it. I’ve seen you teaching, Revan. I see the way your mouth twitches when they do something well; it’s because you’re happy. You’re proud of your students, but you just don’t know how to share your love. And you have so much to share.”

“Oh…”

Aurore continues. “They want you to dance for them. To demonstrate. You say that those who can’t, teach, and you hide behind the scar of your old injury. That’s not it, though—” her tone turns accusatory— “You just don’t believe in yourself—that’s your problem! Scars can heal, you know?”

“But they never fade,” he whispers.

“That’s no reason to hold you back. I didn’t say _forget_ , just _move on_.”

“I can’t. I- I _can’t_.” He trembles.

“Why?” she challenges, voice rising. “Have you forgotten how to dance?!”

“No,” the reply comes instantly, accompanied by a furrow of eyebrows and a glint in the eye. “Never.”

“Do you miss it?” she confronts.

“With all my heart.” The whisper comes back.

“Then you can do this.” She says firmly, taking his hand in hers.

Revan turns away. Aurore's hand almost falls to the floor. Almost. Their fingers remain linked. A second later, his gratitude comes with a painful hoarse tone to his voice. “Thank you, Aurore.” It’s the first time he’s said her name out loud.

Aurore murmurs in assent. Then she giggles, “Your hand is really warm.”

“I’m a warm person,” he mumbles back.

“Yeah, right.”

\------------------

The next day, the students enter the studio as per usual, and they begin their warm-up exercises. After, they wait to be taught something new, for Revan to verbally instruct them from his stationary position at the front.

But today, Revan breaks into a run across the studio, twisting into a powerful vaulting leap. A hand stretches out in front of him, fingers extended gracefully. In control.

And in his hands he holds the stars.

Because he _will_ dance again.

\------------------

_Status: Free_

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine choreographing a (bad) dance solely for a fic ashsahhsa couldn't be me-  
> I'm aware that I didn't explain what any of the ballet terms mean lmao, so here's a guide!! okay but like forgive me if I got anything wrong sjdkdsk it's been a while and my memory is, well... _scuttles to blanket den_  
> [ https://www.city-academy.com/news/a-guide-to-ballet-glossary/  
>  ](https://www.city-academy.com/news/a-guide-to-ballet-glossary/)[ https://dance.lovetoknow.com/ballet-dance-steps](https://dance.lovetoknow.com/ballet-dance-steps)  
> Ballet is just so beautiful <3<3  
> And I have now decided that Revan is babey and must be protected. Also I am considering making art for this fic akjlasda time to add that to the master-list-of-activities-to-procrastinate _shrugs intensely_
> 
> oh!! beta credits!! can't forget that 😅 thank you to the people that helped me make this more cohesive!! <33 :D


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